An Argumentation of Historians

by Jodi Taylor

  I said demurely, ‘Now I know who to thank.’

  He frowned. ‘You thank me.’

  I bowed my head. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  He stood up and waited. Apparently, I was to come too.

  We entered through the wicket into a good-sized courtyard beyond. As I stepped through, he said, ‘Lady, you be welcome,’ and I remembered this was a formal world.

  I said, ‘Sir, I thank you for your kindness and goodwill.’

  He nodded and I felt a small relief. I’d got it right.

  I saw a range of buildings opposite. A hall – the hall, with towers at each end. This was a prosperous place. The main buildings were of stone – there was even some glazing. A number of smaller, wooden buildings were built against the tall curtain wall – a kitchen, a bakehouse, stables, a poultry house, the dovecote – it was all here. The place was bustling with life. A queue of people waited to draw water at the well, over to my left.

  Without pausing he led me across the uneven cobbles and we stepped down into the hall.

  I stood on the threshold, blinking. The interior was very dim after the bright sunshine outside but I knew where I was. I was in the Great Hall at St Mary’s.

  All I had to do was stay alive for the next six hundred and fifty or so years and I’d be home.

  He left me and disappeared through a door at the far end. I stood with my back to the wall and looked around me.

  This hall seemed very slightly smaller than the one I remembered, but the smell was exactly the same. Dust, sunshine, damp stone – I closed my eyes and, in that moment, the History Department swept past me, clutching their mugs and scratchpads and bickering away. Then they were gone, fading into the dusty sunbeams.

  I looked up at the enormous cruck roof. The beams were colossal. The windows were shuttered at the lower part and glazed only at the very top. Where they couldn’t be damaged. There was a staircase on the far right-hand wall – not the magnificent modern version I knew, but a series of triangular oak steps set in a sturdy wooden frame. They ran up to a first-floor door and then turned and ran up the wall to another door on the second floor.

  Under the stairs a small door led down into what I guessed would be the buttery and behind that, the kitchen. It seemed the 14th century had far more idea of health and safety than the modern St Mary’s, since the kitchen was housed in a separate building.

  At the other end of the hall stood a wooden dais. Household servants were putting together a long trestle table. Similar but less grand tables were being set up at right angles down the hall. They were getting ready for their evening meal.

  At first, I couldn’t think what was missing and then I could. There was no fireplace. An octagonal hearth stood between the high table and the lower ones, swept and empty at this time of year. I looked up because Professor Rapson would expect me to. No hole in the roof. No louvres. I looked at the smoke blackened beams. Obviously the smoke found its way out through the gaps in the tiles.

  The floor was of stone, not tiled as it was in my day. The two doors in the back wall opened into what I suspected was a private solar and would, one day, lead to Wardrobe. William Hendred had disappeared through the one on the left.

  I stood quietly against the wall pretending not to notice the curious glances coming my way as they dragged out the benches and made ready for the evening meal. All the servants were men. I had no idea whether this Hugh Armstrong was married or not – even if he was, there would be very few women here. His wife and her maid and that could well be it. There might be a washerwoman – and brewing was traditionally a female activity as well, but all other functions were carried out by men.

  I stared down at the shiny stones on the floor and tried not to think about what had happened to me. Or what was happening to me. Or what would happen to me.

  William Hendred appeared and gestured curtly. I weaved my way around the servants, up the step and through the doorway.

  I’d been right. This was a private room. A very pleasant private room. A small fire burned on a hearth and the shutters were open letting in the last of the afternoon sun.

  An elderly man sat at a table carefully positioned to get the best light. Two or three small scrolls lay in front of him and he was very carefully and very slowly inscribing something at the bottom of one of them. The sound of his pen scratching the parchment was very loud in this quiet room. This was obviously the steward. Walter, as I later discovered. Walter of Shrewsbury. And he was making me wait.

  I took the time to study him because he was as important as William Hendred. Probably even more so in his own eyes. He wore an old-fashioned robe that reached to his ankles. It had once been a dark red but had faded along the folds and hem. A number of small, leather pouches hung from his narrow leather belt. He wore soft felt shoes – whether because he was inside or because he had bunions I couldn’t say, but from the sour expression on his face I would guess the latter. His sparse grey hair hung around his face and I suspected his bald patch was carefully concealed by his soft, floppy hat.

  Eventually, he put the parchment carefully to one side. I could see the still wet brown ink catching the light. We looked at each other and I realised how lucky I’d had it up to this moment, because here was instant and mutual dislike. I strongly suspected he was an ancestor of Malcolm Halcombe.

  I told my story again and it took a long time because he questioned every sentence. When things got really tricky I took refuge in not completely feigned tears or in pretending not to understand his Latin. Which was actually very good. I was careful to make sure mine wasn’t better.

  I didn’t blame him for being suspicious. These were perilous times. They must be expecting the king’s commissioners and official seizure any day now. I wondered if they knew about Guy of Rushford and his unofficial plans.

  Time dragged by and all the time the smell of cooking grew stronger and stronger. I hadn’t eaten for hours and the little that had been in my stomach was back in the forest. I tried not to think that twenty-four hours ago, I’d been with the Boss and Peterson, putting the finishing touches to the Persepolis assignment, or that twelve hours ago I’d been breakfasting with Leon, or that six hours ago I’d been waiting to see Alexander the Great. And now I was here.

  I stood back by the wall while the steward and William Hendred held a whispered consultation. Their dynamic was interesting. They didn’t like each other, I could see that easily, but each listened to what the other had to say, considered their words carefully, and then made a measured response. There might not have been liking but there was respect.

  I was, according to custom and tradition, entitled to a night’s hospitality, but then what? If they chucked me off the manor in the morning – as they were perfectly entitled to do – where would I be this time tomorrow? It occurred to me that perhaps I could trade something of value. Information. Perhaps there was some way in which I could warn them of imminent events without being too specific. Would it help or hinder my cause? Or would History just scythe me off at the knees for doing so?

  Ah well, as Markham often says, it is always better to seek forgiveness than permission.

  I took a step forward. ‘Sir, may I speak?’

  Walter looked up and said curtly, ‘No.’

  ‘Sir, I have heard some talk about …’

  ‘Be silent.’

  Well, that took the decision out of my hands. I was silent. I think Dr Bairstow would have been impressed.

  It was William Hendred who said, ‘What have you heard?’

  I bowed my head respectfully. ‘I have heard talk of …’

  Walter cut in. ‘Where?’

  ‘A tavern, sir, just outside of Rushford.’

  ‘Which one?’

  Shit. ‘I cannot remember the name. It had a bush outside the door.’

  They all had bushes outside the door. That was how you knew it was a tavern. Even today, many pubs continue the tradition with hanging baskets.

  Walter made an exasperated sound. ‘T
avern gossip.’

  William stared thoughtfully but said nothing. The discussion resumed. My ankles began to ache again. It had been a long day.

  Eventually, William stepped back. A decision had been made. It would seem that enquiries would be set in hand and I would remain here in the meantime. It was unclear what enquiries they would be making – whether about my imaginative shipwreck or the possibility of any survivors I could not determine. I was also unsure whether I was a guest or a prisoner.

  I was dismissed from the steward’s presence with a casual flick of the wrist. I turned to go, waited for William Hendred to join me and, when he didn’t, I trailed uncertainly toward the door.

  The sun was very low now, although it would be light for a little while longer. Everyone was busy in the hall. Cloths had been laid. The smell of cooking was driving me insane. Everyone had a purpose and was busy fulfilling it.

  I stood against the wall and wondered what would become of me.

  They put me on the bottom table. The one with its back to the main door and carefully placed to catch all the prevailing draughts. Like modern railway stations. If my status plummeted any lower I’d be out with the dogs.

  Servants brought us bowls in which to wash our hands, but whereas they politely held the bowls for their betters and passed them soft cloths to dry their hands with, ours was just dumped on the table and left. Nevertheless, it felt good to wash my hands again.

  I had two very elderly men opposite me, whom I suspected were former servants and now retired. I took a measure of comfort from knowing this was a place that looked after its people, even after they were too old to work. There was an old woman next to me. There was a musty smell about her as if she was wearing clothes that had been put away while still damp. She was the only other woman in sight. Perhaps in this society women conveniently died when they became too old to breed or work. If that was the case then this one hadn’t read the rules. There was absolutely nothing wrong with her appetite. She ate everything in sight. Her name was Maud – I wondered if that was short for Mathilda – and she was a lady who really enjoyed her food.

  We’ve all read about medieval banquets – boars’ heads, swans roasted with their feathers replaced so they look just like the real thing, elaborate desserts and so on. Our meal was nothing like that. Meat was served, but to the top table only. There was no grand procession around the hall as the cook showcased his talents. Just a couple of boys briskly laying out bowls and platters to each table.

  A row of chairs had been laid out at the top table, including an elaborately carved armed chair with a small canopy, which I suspected was where Hugh Armstrong usually sat. A smaller chair would accommodate his wife. If he had one. Walter and William sat together at one end. They had meat served to them – pork by the looks of it.

  I’m not sure what I was expecting to get. A bone, perhaps, or a bowl of lukewarm sloppy gruel if they weren’t feeling very generous, but it wasn’t bad. There was some sort of stew. Very thick and quite tasty. No meat, of course, because you don’t waste the good stuff on the non-productive members of the community. There was a lot of green stuff in it I didn’t recognise – plucked from the hedgerows, I suspected, but it really wasn’t that bad. And I was starving anyway.

  Believe it or not, the table manners at this St Mary’s were better than anything displayed at mine. I had to remember to hold back because good manners were important in this society. I should not speak with my mouth full or speak to anyone while they were drinking. I shouldn’t dip my bread in the salt – chance would be a fine thing – it was all the way up on the high table.

  I knew that women didn’t swear and shouldn’t touch men not of their own family. I especially knew that women didn’t usually walk anywhere alone. By doing so I had already marked myself out as different.

  I had no eating implements – not even a knife – and everyone else had brought their own so I had to eat with my fingers. I used the end of my stole to keep my hands clean. More than ever I was glad I’d brought it.

  The old man opposite me, wearing an old and much darned tunic that had originally been brown, offered me his beaker of beer to share. I had no choice but to accept. It was a polite gesture. I smiled my thanks, and sipped at the gruesome contents. When I’d finished, I carefully wiped the rim with my stole as etiquette demanded and handed it back with a nod of thanks. I could see this met with some approval.

  While remembering not to shove down my food like a heathen, I tried to listen to the conversations around me and to pick out the odd word every now and then, but the local accent very strong. Making myself a foreign woman had been a good move. Obviously, none of my companions spoke Latin, so, apart from being nudged to pass the jug of beer occasionally, I was left alone. Which was good of them because I could see they were curious.

  I filled up on as much bread as I could politely take, chewing it carefully. Breaking a tooth on some medieval grit would not be a good move. Medieval dentistry was to be undertaken only as a last resort.

  The food was plentiful but dull. Of course, it was a difficult time of year. Their winter supplies would be nearly used up and the main harvest not yet in. Fruit wasn’t ripe yet. But there was enough here for everyone in this seemingly well-organised manor.

  Every time I looked up I would see William watching me. Except for the times when he was speaking with Walter. Then they would both turn and look at me. I wondered if they thought I was a spy. I’m certain Walter thought so.

  In the absence of Hugh Armstrong, they were the two most important men on the manor. They were talking together a lot. Well, Walter was talking and William was playing with his beaker, turning it around as he listened attentively. I knew they were talking about me.

  The meal was finishing. William strode from the hall. Walter, after one last baleful glance at me, vanished through the other door in the wall behind him. Where the library would one day be.

  And what of me?

  I looked around the hall. Maud had vanished. I was the only woman here and on the receiving end of more than my share of strange looks. The majority were curious – guests usually paid for their board and lodgings with news and gossip from other parts, but no one could understand me. I was better dressed than most, but my clothes were odd, and I was alone. I had no husband or father or brothers. No male relatives of any kind. I wondered how far my story of shipwreck, murder and escape had been accepted.

  I looked around. People were pulling out straw palliasses and laying them down, or gathering in groups for a gossip at the end of the day. The hall doubled as a dormitory for everyone not important enough to have their own space. Like me.

  I had no palliasse. But I could manage this. All I needed was to set my back against a wall – a corner would be best – and make myself as inconspicuous as possible. I did briefly consider sleeping outside, but remaining with the crowd might be a safer bet. I was the only woman here, but on the other hand, Walter of Shrewsbury seemed to run a tight ship. The laws of hospitality would prevail – I was almost certain of it.

  I needed to shift, anyway. That’s the problem with beer. It doesn’t stay put for long. I followed several people outside, all of us heading in the same direction.

  The midden was round the back of the stables. The same gap-toothed lad I’d met at the gate smiled helpfully and pointed. I gathered there was a women’s side and a men’s side. Well, that was better than I’d hoped for. I made my way to the women’s side, made my preparations, closed my eyes to the sights, sounds and smells and hoped for the best. And made a note never again to be without a couple of broad dock leaves in my pocket. I had an idea my traditional historian constipation was going to turn out to be a Good Thing after all.

  Making my way back to the hall in the gathering dusk, I reviewed things so far. I wasn’t dead. I had a roof over my head for the night. I’d eaten. I’d drunk beer and survived – although I might turn into a man any moment now – and I’d used the public facilities and lived. Tomorrow could ta
ke care of itself. At the moment, things were good.

  No, they weren’t. The marshal was waiting for me.

  I tried to bluff it out, smiling and nodding politely and pretending I didn’t know it was me he wanted by sidling past him. That didn’t work.

  He planted himself squarely in my path and said, ‘I have a place for you. Come with me.’

  I hesitated, weighing the odds. A night in a public place with ten or so men around me or a night in a private place with just one man.

  A sudden wave of desolation swept over me. What did it matter? I would probably be dead in a few days anyway. I’d say or do the wrong thing and either they’d chuck me out to die slowly in the woods or hang me for some trivial misdemeanour such as being female. I wasn’t Chief Operations Officer Maxwell any longer – I was Joan of Rouen, friendless and penniless and ranking somewhere below the duck-billed platypus on the evolutionary scale. I’d lost my husband, my child, my job, my home, even my own time. What the hell did anything matter any longer?

  I turned silently and followed him to the guardhouse. He halted outside the door in the right-hand tower and flung it open, motioning me inside.

  No. I stopped dead. One man – maybe. Although probably not – not without buying me dinner first – but the evening’s entertainment for a room of soldiers? Definitely not.

  I folded my arms, just in case he wasn’t familiar with intransigent womanhood.

  He stared for a moment and then I think the penny dropped. Or more probably, the groat.

  He smiled slightly, shook his head and motioned me inside again.

  I took a tiny step forward, trying to convey obedience, modesty, but above all – chastity.

  He rolled his eyes. Yes – 14th-century men roll their eyes. You heard it here first. Stepping back from the door he again motioned me inside and managing by this simple action to convey he was being restrained and patient but not for very much longer.

  Well, what did it matter? I stuck my chin in the air again and stepped inside.